


Parameters

by AislinCade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Fingerfucking, First Time Bottoming, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AislinCade/pseuds/AislinCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to try something new. John goes above and beyond the call of duty.</p>
<p>This was really just an excuse to put all my favourite fic kinks in one story. It is 4,600 words of complete smut.</p>
<p>Chaptered because I plan on continuing from where I left off, though the first chapter does function rather well as a stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parameters

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [AggressiveWhenStartled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressiveWhenStartled/pseuds/AggressiveWhenStartled) and [TiltedSyllogism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism) for application of beta-stick and brit-pick! You rock and this story wouldn't be nearly as good without you! <3

At the end of a case, with takeaway eaten and cleaned away, case notes filed and another London criminal behind bars, John sat in his armchair at 221B and listened to a haunting but optimistic melody from Sherlock’s violin.

When the piece was done, Sherlock set the instrument carefully back in its case and leveled a look at him that was pure hunger. 

“Come to bed,” Sherlock said, and John felt pleasant anticipation and a flutter of something like pride, because there had been a time when Sherlock hadn’t known how to ask for what he wanted and had resorted instead to months of petulant mood swings and tantrums and property damage.

“Go on, then,” John said with a grin and a pointed look towards Sherlock’s room. “I’ll be along in a moment.” Sherlock dragged a heady gaze from John’s eyes to his lap and back again, equal parts assessing and devouring.

“Be quick,” he said, then turned in a swirl of blue silk and stalked to his bedroom.

John was thorough in the shower despite Sherlock’s directive. When one was having semi-regular sex with the world’s only consulting detective, one had to become accustomed to being inspected everywhere with every sense the detective possessed, and if John was going to be smelled and tasted in bizarre and sometimes awkward places, well, at least he would smell and taste his best. Plus, Sherlock had spent more than forty-five minutes in the shower earlier in the evening. John felt entitled to a little extra time under the hot spray.

Nevertheless, he was already half-hard with anticipation by the time he stepped out a few minutes later, butterflies in his stomach as he toweled himself off. He didn’t bother getting dressed for the short trip to Sherlock’s bedroom, just wrapped the towel around his hips and left his clothes folded on the sink.

Sherlock’s door was closed, so John knocked to announce his presence before entering. His prick twitched and hardened further under his towel at the view that greeted him.

Sherlock was spread out on his front with his head cradled on crossed arms, facing John with heavy-lidded eyes that raked over John’s mostly naked form. From the doorway, John could see the entire right side of Sherlock’s body, including the sinuous arch of his well-muscled back, his hips pushed up and back to put his glorious arse on prominent display, and John knew an invitation when he saw one. He let the towel drop, a proud display of his own, and rounded the the bed to climb on and kneel behind Sherlock, who twisted his torso slightly so that he could look back at him over his shoulder.

Trailing gentle fingertips up the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, John watched with rapt attention as the skin blossomed with goosebumps under his touch. Sherlock held his breath when John’s hands approached his arse, then let it out in a shivery huff when John pressed his palms to Sherlock’s cheeks to knead the dense muscle.

“This something you like, then?” John asked with one last squeeze of Sherlock’s bum. He used the pad of his thumb to pass a light caress over Sherlock’s hole, loving the way the muscle fluttered and twitched under his touch, the way Sherlock’s hips squirmed and pushed back into his hands.

When John glanced up to Sherlock’s face -- waiting for an answer, because blatant invitation or no, they hadn’t done this before and he needed to hear it directly -- he was met with a dazed expression. Sherlock’s pale blue-green eyes had gone nearly black with pupil, his prominent cheekbones tinged in pretty pink tones. Sherlock swallowed thickly and let out another shaky breath. “Not enough data,” he said, sounding rather breathless. “Never theorize ahead of the facts, John.”

John couldn’t help his giddy chuckle, because what a Sherlock thing that was to say _that_ was, but he kept his touches shallow and light. “So we’re testing to see if you like anal play, are we?”

“And penetration, yes,” came Sherlock's response, his smirk looking somewhat incongruous on his flushed face.

John smirked back, pressed the pad of his thumb more firmly against Sherlock’s arse; Sherlock bit his lip and pressed back and Jesus, that was getting to him in all the right ways. “What are the parameters of this experiment?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly, his responses slowed but still lightning quick in comparison to most people. “Parameters? John, this isn’t _actually_ an--”

John chose that moment to slide up Sherlock’s body, dragging callused palms up either side of Sherlock’s spine as he went, until the contact between them stretched from his chest at Sherlock’s back to his thighs between Sherlock’s spread legs, his weight pressing Sherlock into the mattress.

Sherlock moaned into his pillow and shifted enough that the hard line of John's erection slotted between his arse cheeks.

“Parameters,” John repeated, a bit breathless himself now. He balanced his weight on one elbow so he could use his other hand to turn Sherlock’s head with a firm grip of his curls that had Sherlock moaning again and squirming delightfully under John’s weight. John nibbled a line from Sherlock’s neck to his ear. “Do you want me to suck you off while I finger your arse? Or do you want me to fuck you with my fingers till you’re begging to come, and then finish you off with my cock inside you?” He ground his hips against Sherlock for effect and Sherlock groaned and pushed back against him.

Emboldened by that response, John used his legs between Sherlock’s thighs to spread him wide and rocked gently against his upturned arse. When he next spoke it was directly against Sherlock’s ear, his voice a low growl and his lips against Sherlock’s skin. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck, John, all of it.” Sherlock’s voice was gratifyingly low, thready, needy with want, and oh, that was gorgeous.

“Let’s start with fingers, then,” John suggested, drawing back onto his knees and leaving Sherlock shivering in the sudden cool. “Have you got--”

“Night table,” Sherlock cut in, waving a clumsy hand toward the table closest to where they were. Convenient.

John leaned back over Sherlock to reach toward the drawer, his other hand in the small of Sherlock’s back. The drawer contained a box of latex gloves, a box of condoms, and a brand new tube of silicone-based lubricant. He chuckled as he grabbed all three and placed them within easy reach on the bed.

“You’ve been planning this,” he said fondly, bringing both hands to Sherlock’s back and rubbing soothingly up to his shoulders.

Sherlock hummed and went a bit boneless from the massage, so John used the moment to dispense with the formalities.

“If anything hurts or you just don’t like it, tell me right away.”

“Yes, John,” came Sherlock’s lazy, bored drawl.

“I mean it, you berk,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulders in warning and then dragging his hands back down his spine and to his arse to once again spread him open. Sherlock arched his back, further exposing himself to John’s hungry gaze, and the sight of that little dusky pink pucker, the fine dusting of hair there, made John’s mouth water.

Before he’d really even thought about it, John leaned forward and traced the furled skin with his tongue. Sherlock jerked and moaned, and John’s thumbs dug into his flesh on either side of his arse hole to give John more room to drag his tongue in a slow, wet sweep from bottom to top.

“Oh, that’s _filthy_ ,” Sherlock moaned with a shudder, once again burying his face in his pillow.

John pulled back just enough to ask, “Do you want me to stop,” panting humid breaths into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse.

“No!” Sherlock practically barked. “God no.” He brought his hands back to spread himself, his face half-mashed into the pillow but turned just enough so he could breathe. 

With Sherlock holding himself open -- and god, that was a sight -- John could shift and take some of the pressure off his knees and back. He once again rested his weight on one elbow and wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s thigh, trailed licks and sharp nips along Sherlock’s slight curves, from upper thigh to arse cheek and then inward again. He speared his tongue, pushing just the tip of it inside, and from this close he could smell Sherlock’s expensive body wash and the scent of his arousal, taste the freshly clean flavour of his skin, and he groaned against Sherlock’s flesh and thrust his tongue deeper until he felt the crushing pressure of the muscle trying to push him out.

Sherlock himself wasn’t fighting it, though; quite the opposite, he was enthusiastically pushing back against John’s face and his questing tongue, and the sounds coming from him were beautifully obscene, low groans that trailed into keening whimpers when John pursed his lips and sucked soft, wet kisses directly against his arse. It was intoxicating, the rhythm of it. John reached underneath Sherlock’s groin to cup his hand over Sherlock’s erection, pressing his palm against the base of his cock and lapping at his hole. He couldn’t get enough: Sherlock’s hips, grinding down against his hand and then back against his mouth, Sherlock’s breath coming fast and loud and mingling with John’s moans.

John pulled back a few inches to see his handiwork and the sight of it had his blood pumping impossibly harder through his veins. Sherlock’s hole, flushed and shining wet, slick trails running down along his perineum. Sherlock’s buttocks were stained red from where his fingers dug in to hold himself open, and the heaving of his breaths kept him rocking subtly. “John,” he moaned, sounding wrecked; sounding the way John felt. John pressed a sloppy kiss to Sherlock’s arse cheek, nipped it, gently pushed at his hands until Sherlock released his grip and pushed his arms under his pillow to support his head.

John reached for the lube, cursing himself that he hadn’t removed the plastic before because now his hands were shaking and it took him entirely too long to get rid of it. Once done, he gratefully threw the plastic aside and lightly smacked Sherlock’s bum, earning as much of a glare as Sherlock was capable of in his current state, which wasn’t much. “Over,” John said, nudging his hip, and Sherlock obliged with an uncharacteristically ungainly roll. He was flushed from his cheeks to halfway down his chest, his cock was straining, the glans red and moist where it peeked out from his foreskin, precome dripping onto his belly and leaving streaks of moisture across his skin. “God,” John said, pressing his unoccupied hand to his own cock to relieve some of the pressure. 

Sherlock bent his legs up, his feet flat on the mattress and his arms above his head, unabashedly exposing himself. John took a moment just to stare, taking in the mouth watering display before grabbing a latex glove from the box and pulling it on with a snap. Sherlock’s cock twitched at the sound and John made a mental note of that one. They hadn’t had any reason to use gloves before, but that effect couldn’t be ignored.

John poured a bit of lube into his palm and let it warm a bit before coating a gloved finger. He held Sherlock’s gaze as he brought that finger down, pressing first against Sherlock’s perineum and sliding down to his arse, still wet with saliva. He pushed the pad of his finger against Sherlock’s opening, just enough pressure to breach him and rub at his rim. 

“John,” Sherlock implored, his expression a combination of impatience and pleading. John grinned and pressed his finger in, slowly, up to the second knuckle. The hot clench of Sherlock’s body was familiar; he’d done his share of rectal exams, but never with this sense of anticipation or the sympathetic twitch of his cock when Sherlock gasped and his sphincter tightened around Jonn’s digit. John crooked his finger to find Sherlock’s prostate and gave it a firm rub and delighted in the shocked-sounding huff of Sherlock’s breath that sounded like an “Oh!”

Thrusting his finger a few times, slow and shallow, John rubbed gentle circles against Sherlock’s prostate and soon Sherlock was pressing greedily against his hand, seeking more. John gently removed his hand and dribbled some lube from his palm onto his fingers while Sherlock watched him hungrily. John brought his hand back to Sherlock’s hole, pressing at him with the tips of his first and second finger now and watching as the flushed skin stretched to let him in. Sherlock hissed quietly when John pushed his fingers in fully, drawing John’s attention.

“Alright?” With his eyes on Sherlock’s face, John found that little bundle of nerves and rubbed it again, and he saw the moment that the little bit of pain at the stretch of two fingers transmuted into pleasure on Sherlock’s face. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock said, his eyes fluttering shut. “I had read about prostate stimulation in my research but, _oh!_ ”

John grinned and kept up the steady circular motion of his fingers. He rubbed the excess lube on his other hand off on the towel and leaned down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss at the base of Sherlock’s erection. He slid his lips up until he reached the tip, pursing his mouth around it with a gentle suck, his tongue dipping under the ridge of Sherlock’s foreskin to flicker at his fraenulum. Sherlock’s head fell back on a moan louder than any he’d uttered so far, and the sound of it made John shiver. John pulled off him with a last bit of slick suction and an audible pop. “It feels better in combination with other pleasant things,” he said, using his free hand to still Sherlock’s hips.

“So I see,” Sherlock managed, his voice a low, rough rumble of sound. “Again.”

John obliged, this time taking Sherlock’s cock as far into his mouth as he could while trying to maintain the pressure on Sherlock’s prostate, and was rewarded by a guttural cry and Sherlock’s fingers in his hair, sending a shiver over his scalp and down his spine. John bobbed his head, sucking hard toward the top and running his tongue over the glans before pressing down again, rubbing his fingers inside Sherlock all the while. Even with his hand on Sherlock’s hip to keep him steady, Sherlock seemed unable to stay still -- his back arched and his hands clenched, one in the sheet and one in John’s hair. For someone usually so eloquent, the low rumble of near-constant curses were intensely gratifying. 

John’s concentration was so focused on the rhythm of his fingers pumping into Sherlock’s body and the swell of Sherlock’s prick in his mouth, throbbing and thickening as his entire body tightened and went rigid, that he only belatedly noticed the painful tugging of Sherlock’s fingers in his hair.

“Not yet, John, _wait_ ,” Sherlock gasped, and it felt so wrong to stop now when Sherlock was so close, but Sherlock’s eyes were clenched shut and he had removed one hand from John’s head to grip the base of his own cock, physically stopping his orgasm. John pulled away from Sherlock’s prick with a wet slurp that he’d have been embarrassed about if he wasn’t so desperately aroused, watching Sherlock’s pink-washed chest heaving with his breaths.

John’s fingers were still buried in Sherlock’s arse and he continued to fuck him slowly with them, twisting his wrist on each withdrawal to rub the knobs of his knuckles against the sensitive rim of Sherlock’s hole but being careful to avoid his prostate. 

John’s hand was sweating in the latex glove and his fingers were starting to cramp, but Sherlock was so gorgeous like this: lips bitten red, legs spread indecently wide, cock twitching and leaking copiously onto the flat, smooth surface of his abdomen. 

“John,” Sherlock said when his breathing had calmed. He blinked his eyes open and met John’s rapt gaze with a look of mingled desire and determination. “I want you to fuck me,” he breathed.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John barely recognized his own voice -- it was like gravel, dry and coarse with want. If he’d ever been this aroused before, he certainly couldn’t remember it now.

“Please,” Sherlock grinned, his face lit up with what looked like the sultry version of his deducing expression. “I want to come with you inside me,” he continued, all in a rush, while he grasped John by the shoulders and tried to pull him up the bed.

John went gladly and crushed their lips together in a messy kiss, and although it was a bit awkward he was able to keep the tips of his fingers inside Sherlock and thrusting shallowly as he ate greedily at his mouth. He gently scissored his fingers to further stretch the muscle and swallowed down the whimpery sound Sherlock made in response.

“You’re still so tight,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips. “Let’s add another finger first, and then I’ll fuck you into the mattress.”

Sherlock moaned softly and John felt him shiver. Sherlock’s head rolled back, exposing the pale lines of his throat, and John eagerly smeared wet kisses and sharp nips along that creamy expanse and brought bright splotches of pink to the surface.

“Oh god, John, don’t tease,” Sherlock groaned brokenly, his voice hitting that timbre that did all sorts of things to John’s libido.

“I like it when you’re desperate.” The words were muffled against Sherlock’s skin, but judging by the impatient huff that followed, he’d heard them. John gave a last nip to Sherlock’s neck, just this side of too hard, and delighted in the sharp arch of his back as John reached for the lube. He dribbled clear fluid over three gloved fingers and spread the slick around, then curled up against Sherlock’s side and manhandled him till they were mostly spooning, but with Sherlock’s top leg bent forward to expose him.

John pointed his fingers, the middle one on top of the other two, and pressed at Sherlock’s hole. There was still some resistance, but Sherlock pushed back wantonly. John stopped his forward press and just held his hand still for a moment, watching Sherlock fuck himself on his fingers and drinking in the little moans and sighs he was making as he did. It was glorious. John moved his hips forward a little, just enough to press his erection against Sherlock’s lower back, to let him feel how turned on he was just watching. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John growled in his ear and Sherlock only squirmed in response. “How long ago did you decide you wanted this?”

“Long story.” Sherlock gasped, rolling his hips into John’s leisurely pushes. “Tell you later.”

“Deal.” John chuckled and pushed his fingers in as far as they would go, then dragged his knuckles over Sherlock’s swollen, sensitive prostate to hear his keening whimper. “You ready,” he asked with a playful nibble to Sherlock’s earlobe.

“Fuck, yes, more than ready.”

John kissed Sherlock’s temple, over the damp curls plastered to his skin, and gently withdrew his fingers. He couldn’t resist one last firm rub against Sherlock’s prostate just for that delicious arch of his back and the damp friction of their sweat-slick skin sliding together where John’s chest was pressed to Sherlock’s back.

The glove was quickly peeled off and tossed inside-out onto the floor and John reached for the condoms while Sherlock positioned himself once again on his front, writhing slightly against the soft cotton sheets as if seeking any kind of friction he could get.

“Look at you,” John said, tearing open a condom packet and quickly rolling the latex over his straining cock. 

“Look later.” Sherlock wiggled his hips pointedly and John chuckled, slicked himself up, and bit back a sigh because even that minimal contact felt good after neglecting himself so long.

John climbed back on top of Sherlock, his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s head and his groin pressed firmly to the soft swell of his rear. He took another moment to tease them both, nibbling Sherlock’s neck and shoulders and rubbing his cock along the crease of Sherlock’s arse, pressing up under his bollocks and between his thighs.

“Do you want me to beg? Is that it?” Sherlock asked, impatient and imploring. 

“No, nothing like that.” John let the head of his cock drag back up from Sherlock’s perineum, pausing when it caught slightly in the loosened rim of Sherlock’s hole and pushing forward, just a little, just enough that Sherlock caught his breath in expectation, before backing off again and rubbing back downward to repeat the process. On the second drag upward he pressed a little harder at Sherlock’s entrance, dipping just the crown inside and then retreating again. “Anticipation is sexy,” he said by way of an explanation, and Sherlock’s answering growl was all impatience so on the next pass he pushed in to his fraenulum and stayed there. 

John gave his lover a moment to adjust. Sherlock’s body gripped him, his muscles fluttering and squeezing and then, with a soft, huffed exhale from Sherlock, they finally relaxed enough for John to move.

“I’m anticipating--” John started, sliding forward millimeter by millimeter and moaning softly when the ridge of his cockhead was swallowed and his entire glans was encased in Sherlock’s tight heat.

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “ _John_.”

“--being balls-deep inside you--”

“ _Yes!_ ” Sherlock jerked his hips back, taking another few centimeters of John’s cock. They both gasped at the suddenness, but John brought a hand to Sherlock’s hip to steady him.

“Hold on, just… I want to feel you,” John said, and at that, Sherlock subsided. “So good, god, you feel so good.” He kept pressing forward slowly, so slowly, until he eventually, _finally_ bottomed out, his bollocks tight against Sherlock’s perineum.

“If you’re quite finished _feeling_ me--” Sherlock tried, but the wavery quality of his voice gave him away, as did the renewed twitching of his internal muscles struggling to accommodate John’s girth. John nipped him on the shoulder, and Sherlock _squeezed_ in retaliation, drawing a sharp gasp from John and an entirely unintentional thrust. 

The sound that came from Sherlock at that was pure sex; a low, gravelly moan that felt like it vibrated through them both. John cupped his hips forward and rocked into him, just hard enough that Sherlock could feel the slippery push-pull of John’s cock inside him, nice and slow. Sherlock tried to push back against him, to urge him faster, but John just trailed his hand along Sherlock’s flank and then stroked back to his hip, encouraging Sherlock to move with him and speeding up once the rhythm had Sherlock’s breath gusting heavily out of him on every push forward.

Sherlock was up on his elbows, his shoulderblades stark under his skin, so John leaned in and peppered kisses over them and between them. John’s thrusts grew harder, drawing helpless little moans from him, interspersed with ground out curses and pleas. Sherlock’s head hung down between his arms, his curls damp with sweat and sticking to his neck and the sides of his face. John watched a drop of sweat trail down Sherlock’s nape and followed its path with his tongue, then bit that same tender place with a low growl and a hard, full thrust. 

And oh, what an effect that had: a deep shiver passed through Sherlock and he arched sharply, simultaneously pressing his nape against John’s mouth and driving his hips up and back, changing the angle so that the next inward push had Sherlock jerking and grinding out a harsh bark of sound. For a moment John thought Sherlock had come, but then he said “Oh god, right there, prostate, oh fuck,” so John doubled down and did his damnedest to repeat the exact conditions that had gotten that result.

He knew he’d gotten it right by Sherlock’s bitten-off groan, the way he rolled his head back and forth against the sheets, the way his shoulders tensed as he grasped handfuls of cotton and twisted.

John braced himself on both hands, moving the one that had been at Sherlock’s side to grip Sherlock’s fist instead as he sped up his strokes. He kept the angle the same even though it taxed his muscles, even when his left arm began to shake and he had to shift his weight to the right, because the sounds Sherlock made with every thrust were unlike anything he’d heard from his lover before -- deep sobs and groans of pleasure and the occasional keening whimper, interrupted by a constant stream of expletives. The litany of curses was cut off when Sherlock gasped and said “I think I’m--” and then “Fuck!” and he released his hold on the sheet to let John’s fingers interlace with his own. “Oh god I’m co--”

The word turned into a harsh exhale as Sherlock jerked and ground back against John and his entire body tensed. John kept pumping into the clenching grip of Sherlock’s body, continued to piston his hips and drive his cock against Sherlock’s prostate, until the tension peaked -- and then broke, and Sherlock was shouting, twisting, his knuckles white with the strength of his grip on John’s hand and the bed sheet while his pelvic muscles rippled and pulsed with his orgasm. John could feel the contractions milking his cock, drawing him ever closer to his own release; even when Sherlock was wrung out and melted, limp, into the mattress, John still felt the rhythmic fluttering of orgasmic aftershocks. Sherlock’s voice had gone dry and hoarse but continued to pour out of him in low, breathless groans, interrupted when he inhaled and shaken by John’s fevered thrusting.

John switched to base, animalistic rutting against Sherlock’s arse, quick jerks that filled the room with the sounds of their skin slapping together; a filthy, percussive beat to go along with John’s heavy panting and Sherlock’s continued moans. John was so close, right on the edge, and with one last deliberate clench of Sherlock’s body sent him crashing spectacularly over, shoving hard and deep and coming with a shout.

“Oh,” Sherlock exclaimed, sounding pleasure-drunk and amazed. “I can feel you-- I can feel you pulsing, fuck.” He shoved his face into the sheet, rubbed his cheek against the soft cotton, and wiggled his hips slightly in pure, haptic bliss. The movement drew a last, feeble throb from John’s prick and a sated groan from his lips before he collapsed on top of Sherlock.

John pulled out gently, mindful of the sensitivity they’d both be feeling for a while. He went on shaky legs to dispose of the condom, then came back to bed with a wet flannel and a glass of water. When he returned, Sherlock was still exactly as he’d left him: face-down, splayed out, and utterly, deliciously indecent.

John cleaned up what he could reach with Sherlock sprawled on his front, then patted and prodded him till he obliged to turn over. John unfolded and refolded the flannel for a clean surface so he could wipe down Sherlock’s front, too. When he was done, he threw the flannel aside and climbed back into bed, on the opposite side of Sherlock from the damp patch that would soon be disgustingly sticky.

Sherlock was still catching his breath, eyes shut and face and chest flushed, so John curled up beside him and threw his arm over Sherlock’s torso for a bit of contact while they both came down.


End file.
